


Cowboy

by bananabog



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Dom/sub Undertones, I have no idea, Incest, M/M, Orgasm Denial, PWP, Pure Porn, Riding, Stancest - Freeform, completely consensual no worries, dom!receptive!Ford, sometime between TLM and DaMvTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 07:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5657275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananabog/pseuds/bananabog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanley needs a reminder that Stanford isn't the same brother he thinks he is. Freeform.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cowboy

**Author's Note:**

> Porn without plot. Unprotected sex. Slight dirty talk. Ford being dom as hell even while taking it up the butt. 
> 
> Completely unrealistic, probably, but whatever. PORN.

In hindsight, Ford supposes this really shouldn’t have surprised him. Even with forty-odd years between them – even though time has patiently whittled away some (most) of their similarities and honed the (many) other differences between them – Stanley still forgets sometimes that the Stanford that came out of the portal _isn’t_ exactly the same Stanford he’d grown up alongside with.

It’s not like Stan isn’t aware of this. Ford’s caught the way Stan’s eyebrows lift in unguarded surprise, whenever Ford’s done something the other didn’t realize he was capable of. Wrestling him to the ground, lying bold-facedly to the cops, pulling out a gun; Snatching an unsuspecting Stan out of the corridor and into his private study (“Where the hell did this room…? Was this always here?!”), slamming him against the wall, initiating the kiss… And actually, now that he thinks about it, it seems nearly _everything_ he’s ever done since re-emerging from the portal has caught Stan off guard.

Which brings him back to the current perplexing situation of why Stanley still thinks things are going to play out the same way as they had back when they were both teenagers. 

“Hey.” Stan snaps his fingers in front of Ford’s face. Ford glares at him in annoyance (he only half-means it). “I can almost see the gears turning in that big brain’o yours, Poindexter. Quit thinkin’ so loud.”

It’s nearly a word-for-word replay of the first time they’d done this, and… it’s almost… tender. (The word Ford really wants to tie it to is “childish”, but that seems slightly too harsh.)

He kisses Stan roughly again, practically shoving his twin’s head back into the wallpaper from the force of it as he knocks off Stan’s fez, winding calloused fingers into the thinning hair at his temples and gripping lightly. Stan makes a noise that’s halfway between pleased and disgruntled (it’s mostly pleased. Stan liking it hard and fast hasn’t changed, it seems) as he returns the kiss with equal passion.

He’s beginning to realize it’s probably more nostalgic affection than naivety that shapes the way Stan still thinks of him. Ford confirms this theory when Stan breaks away to start mouthing hungrily at the hollow of Ford’s neck and collarbone.

“Missed you,” Stan mumbles against him. Ford shivers and tilts his head back, allowing his twin further access. Stan goes in like a lion for the kill and Ford groans shamelessly as the other’s teeth scrape over his jugular, punctuating every word with frenzied nips and sucks at his exposed skin, “Missed you so – _goddamn_ much – _fuck_ –missed you, I fucking _missed you…!”_

Thick hands rake impatiently up and over his sides, and suddenly Ford’s the one with his back against the wall instead. He growls at their reversed positions, a warning.

Stan is out of breath by this point, face flushed and breathing hard a little, but apparently not enough, because he cocks an eyebrow.

“Problem, Poindexter?”

“Yes, actually.” – and Ford’s hands snap out, grasp Stan by his padded shoulders – and Stan is back against the wall with a none-too-gentle slam. “Ahh. Much better.”

“Oh hoh.” Stan breaks out The Shit-Eating Grin. His voice pitches into a falsetto, “ _If it’s a fight you want, then it’s a fight you’re going to get…!_ ”

“Could you _not_ mimick Mabel when we’re in the middle of – ”

That’s as far as he manages before Stan surges forward at him and… this is not a kiss. This is a wet, messy, _mouth slam_ , and then Stan might as well be both figuratively _and_ literally eating his face, because that’s what it feels like. Ford stumbles backwards, low rumble in his throat as they kiss ferociously. He counters Stan with the same relentless fervor, both of them necking like a couple of horny teenagers (christ, they’re both way too _old_ for this), hands threading and kneading and scrabbling for every possible contact. He’s vaguely aware of Stan trying to steer them in the direction of his couch.

_Hook._

He allows Stan to shove him backwards and down onto the couch. A little dust cloud flies up in protest, and some stacked books slide off, thumping dully to the wooden floor from the impact. Ford lets out a convincing moan (and if he’s going to be honest, it’s not entirely theatrical by this point) when the other man straddles him, forcefully nudges his thighs apart with a knee, and harshly palms his straining arousal through his slacks.       

“Animal,” he pants, teeth bared in a feral grin.

“Beast in the sack, and you know it,” Stan smirks. He fastens his mouth over Stanford’s throat again in a display of dominance. Again, Ford lets him.

He also pushes his knee into the other man’s tented crotch.

Stan groans mightily, eyes slamming shut as he begins humping the hell out of Ford’s leg in earnest. His fingers stutter over Ford’s fly where he’s been clumsily attempting to work it down. “Shit, Ford…”

Ford takes the opportunity to start pulling at Stan’s suit, wanting it off, his fingers stammering through the buttons. Stan’s only all too happy to move on to the main course and they work in tandem, heated gasps and crude moans filling the silence between them as he shrugs out of his suit.

“Fucking trenchcoat, why the fuck do you wear a _trenchcoat,_ with a _sweater,_ in _summer,”_ Stan complains, still grinding against Ford’s knee. He lets out an appreciative sigh as Ford deftly opens up his shirt, slipping inside to roughly thumb at his nipples, circling them until they’ve drawn up into tight, dark nubs. Ford flicks and rolls them expertly between his fingers until Stan’s whimpering into the touch.

Stan resumes his mission of removing Ford’s pants (or at least he tries to, because the action is barely coherent). He settles for pawing at Ford’s erection instead. It’s Ford’s turn to keen.

“Why do _you_ wear an eyepatch?” he retorts, thrusting up into his brother’s palm.

“Missed you,” Stan repeats, ignoring the question. It’s almost a mantra under his breath as their movements grow increasingly desperate. _“God,_ Ford, I… You have _no idea_ how _much.”_

Stan finally undoes Ford’s pants. Ford raises his hips, obliging, as Stan all but tears the material off his legs. He barely has time to register the cool air hitting his thighs before Stan’s hot mouth closes over the bulge of his boxers.

Ford’s head thumps back against the couch. A ragged groan tears itself from his throat and his fingers fly into Stan’s hair, unbidden. “Stanley…!”

_Line._

Stan grips his hips with an almost bruising force, ordering him to still even as Ford continues to writhe and try to push more of him into Stan’s greedy mouth. The boxers come off (somewhat, dangling off his ankle as they’re shoved down, and he manages to get at least one leg out of them) and then Stan is _on_ him, wet and warm and _soft_ and _so good_ and Ford can’t stop the noises leaving him now, crying out as Stanley takes him deep, takes him all the way to the root in a single movement, as he lets his brother fuck into his mouth.

Apparently Stanley is just that good, because Ford doesn’t notice when (or how or _where)_ the other finds the lube. It just… appears, _while he’s still in Stan’s mouth no less_ , and he’s only alerted to its existence when the loud pop of the cap resounds through the room.

Stan’s smirking at him from between his legs, around his cock, as he leisurely, liberally, deliberately coats the digits of one hand for Ford to see.

He touches cool fingers to the pucker of Ford’s asshole.

Ford jerks, eyes going wide, pretense gone for an instant.

It’s been a long time... too long... since someone else has been in that intimate space. He doesn’t realize he’s been digging his fingers into Stan’s shoulder until the other draws off of him with an obscene sound, and Ford groans at the loss of the heat.

“Hey,” Stan says again, shifting up between his legs so that they face each other. He licks his lips. His lips that are wet, loose, and deliciously reddened from his efforts, and Ford has to tear his eyes away. When he does, he startles again when he realizes that the other is actually concerned. And maybe a little unsure, the first sign of wavering his confidence has shown. The emotion is barely palpable under the haze of sex, and the gruff lines on his twin’s face, but it’s there. “If… if you don’t want to, I can stop. We don’t gotta – ”

Ford immediately clamps a hand over Stan’s wrist, the one about to breach him, stilling him.

Stan stiffens, then sags slightly in obvious disappointment. “Yeah, that’s – that’s okay. Sorry. Guess I got a little – ”

Stan stutters off into stunned silence as Ford takes his hand and guides Stan’s fingers to himself.

“S-Stanford…”

“Just been a while,” the other grunts, only a little embarrassed. He grinds down against Stan’s fingers as he directs them, and after a while Stan resumes the lead, rubbing soothing circles around his entrance, teasing him open, even while Ford’s fingers remain loosely clasped around his own. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure it’s – ”

“Stanley. I _want_ this.” _I need this_ , he doesn’t say. It’s been too long (he _misses_ this, he misses _him,_ he _misses him_ so much but he can’t say it, _won’t_ say it). It’s moments like this that remind him of how far apart they really are, and Ford doesn’t want to think about that right now so he pushes Stan’s slicked fingers into himself, two of them, up to the first knuckle. Both of them gasp simultaneously. “Keep going.”

The other doesn’t need to be told twice. He picks up their earlier pace once he senses that Ford’s become more comfortable with his administrations. Soon enough, Ford’s fucking himself down onto Stan’s fingers with abandon, taking him in up to the second knuckle, then the third, and when he feels relaxed enough Stan presses in another finger alongside.

“Shit, Sixer,” Stan breathes. Ford groans, low and loud and deep, head rolling back, and he gasps and pants as he swivels down onto Stan’s fingers, relishing the stretch, the slight sting of it. Stan’s cupping himself through his slacks with his other hand and… oh. That’s… that’s really hot. “Look so fucking good like this. Look so fuckin’ _hot.”_

His twin doesn’t sound like he’s going to be able to hold back much longer. Which is exactly what Ford wants. He tugs Stan up by the collar of his open shirt (and they’re both still partially clothed, look at that) and their mouths meet again repeatedly, messily, sloppily, even as Stan continues to work him open with his fingers. Ford fumbles with his brother’s pants and Stan hisses as his thus-far ignored erection all but springs out of its confines. He kicks off his pants, not caring where they land.

There’s another soft pop as the lube comes out again, and Ford closes his fingers over his brother’s leaking cock, quickly slicking him up. Stan groans and throws his head back, hips pumping frantically into Ford’s hand…

And then he suddenly finds himself on his back with Ford straddling _him_ instead.

Stan blinks, stupidly. How did…

 _“Sinker,”_ Ford says. There’s a triumphant, dangerous edge to the smile that’s slowly stretching across his face. Stan jumps as the hand squeezes firmly around him.

“Ford, what – ”

“Understand this, Stanley.”

Ford’s hand pumps once, in maddeningly slow contrast to their fevered movements from earlier. Stan makes a choked noise.

“Just because I _let you_ take me doesn’t make me submissive.”

He strokes him again. Stan writhes, gasping.

“In fact…” he drawls, “if you think anything is going to turn out the same way it did when we were kids…” and it’s almost adorable just how swiftly Stan is dissolving into a complete mess under him, his head trashing from side to side as Stanford continues with his languid pace, “you’re going to be very surprised.”

Stan somehow manages to collect enough brain cells to stammer out, _“Pleasantly_ surprised, I hope?”

“Oh, yes.” Ford’s hand stills as he shifts back onto his knees, positioning himself. He watches as Stanley’s eyes grow impossibly big, before Stan slams his head back into the couch, mouth opening wide in a silent cry as Ford takes Stan into himself with the same unhurried demeanor, as he begins to fuck himself shallowly on just the head of Stan’s cock. The lube makes dirty, squelching noises as Stan’s cockhead slips repeatedly in and out of him.  _“Very_ pleasant. For me, at least. For you, I imagine it might be somewhat more of a torture.”

“Oh, god - Jesus - Jesus _christ!”_ Stan’s hands are scrambling at his hips, trying to make him go faster, but Ford easily ignores them. He pushes himself down once, taking Stan all the way to the hilt (Stan gives a loud shout) before sliding back up and teasing the other again with just the tip of his cock inside of him.

Stan seems to have forgotten how to communicate by this point. He’s reduced entirely to whimpers that are quickly escalating into raw, pained howls of delight, and he claws at Stanford, barely able to keep his focus on him as his brother (almost calmly) rides him.

“I’ve learnt a lot in the thirty years we’ve been apart,” Ford continues, his voice only trembling slightly, as he raises himself up, up until Stan’s almost slipping out of him, before slamming back down and repeating the motion, and Stanley’s positively screaming himself hoarse now. The noises go straight to his own bobbing erection, and Ford has to fight to refrain from giving in to the urge to jerk himself off into oblivion. “I’m very different now, Stanley. Not the same shy, scrawny nerd brother you were used to having your way with. I take what I want, now. And what I _want_ – ” he thrusts back down onto Stanley, angling himself just so, and they both cry out as Stan sinks deep into him and hits his prostate dead on, “ – I make sure I _get.”_

 _“Shit!”_ Stanley wails. Stan’s scratching new scars into him, he's sure of it, as the other clutches at him, spasming uncontrollably. Stan’s hands fly from his waist, to his hips, to the couch - seeking purchase and finding none as he nears his end. “Fuck, Ford…! Oh, my god! Oh, my _god,_ Ford! JESUS, _FUCK,_ FORD! _FORD!!_ ”

But Stanley doesn’t come. Not until Ford lets him.

Not until Ford climaxes, as he pounds himself down onto his brother.

Not until Ford comes completely untouched save for where they’re joined together.   

He swallows Stanley’s shriek when he does.


End file.
